


Three Glasses of Water

by ienablu



Category: The Bourne Legacy (2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pre-film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8170360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu
Summary: A full-mark up after a boundary change.





	

The exam room is its standard cool sixty-eight degrees fahrenheit, and a familiar chill sweeps through Marta as she closes the door behind her.

The program participant – number three – tracks her movements from the door to the counter. He doesn’t talk and he doesn’t ask questions, not like some of the other participants.

“We brought you in because we changed the boundaries,” Marta explains, flipping through the vitals taken prior to her entrance. “We’re going to need to do a full mark-up.”

“No.”

She turns on her heel, staring at him in surprise. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t object or argue. _Hasn’t_ objected or argued. “I know that boundary changes can interfere with plans,” she says, looking back at the timeline of past tests, “but this program is constantly evolving, necessitating our procedures to evolve with the data we collect–”

“You’ve been drinking.”

She stills for a moment, breath caught in her throat. “I’m sorry?” she asks.

“You know my file,” he starts, gaze and voice even.

Her gaze drops down to his leg. She knows his file well.

“I think you’ll understand why I’m cautious about who performs my medical procedures and under what circumstances.”

Her mouth thins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Despite your past–”

“My past?” she asks.

“–you’ve never lapsed into drinking on the job.”

“What do you mean by my _past_?” she repeats, voice pitching higher.

“I think you’ll understand why I’m cautious about who performs my medical procedures,” he repeats. Both his face and voice are cool and emotionless.

She tries to match his cool impassive stare, but her brow keeps furrowing. She can’t manage the non-reaction the program mandates. “You looked into me? Into my past?” 

“Yes. Your work and your credentials are unparalleled in your field. _You_ are unparalleled in your field. And I’ve had no reason not to doubt you until now.”

Her pulse picks up. Her breathing comes quicker. Her knuckles go white around her clipboard. “My boyfriend left me,” she says, voice tight, “and I had a shot of Bacardi before I came in to help take the edge off and steady myself. Is that what you wanted to hear?” She turns from him and starts preparing the needles for the blood-draw in short, jerky motions.

He’s still watching her when she turns to him. When she takes the two steps towards him, he says, “No. I’ll do it.”

“I can draw your blood, I’m not _drunk_ –”

“But you’re emotional.”

“I’m… emotional,” she repeats, voice soft and wondering. Her voice does not stay soft for long. “I am human, I am permitted a few rough days. I have a doctorate and five certifications, I spent over a hundred credit hours in graduate school, I have _aced_ an exam hungover after a pregnancy scare and–”

His gaze flicks over to the door, and he sits up straighter.

The doorknob turns. A moment later, Dr. Foist steps into the exam room. He looks warily between them. “Sorry for interrupting…” he starts.

The room is deafening silent in the absence of her fury, in the hard lines of his mouth.

“I just thought I heard some raised voices,” Dr. Foist continues.

She pulls herself together, makes herself give him a polite smile. “We’re fine. Thank you for checking in, though.”

Dr. Foist doesn’t seem convinced. “If there’s anything you need…”

The participant clears his throat. “Could I get a glass of water?” he asks.

Dr. Foist looks to her for permission, then mirrors her nod. “Sure.” He steps out, and a very quiet minute passes before he returns. He passes the paper cup to the participant, glances at Marta, and leaves again.

Marta clears her throat. “Are you thirsty? What’s your water intake been like for the past few days?”

After a glance at the door, he holds the cup out to her.

“What?”

“No one has ever been emotional in this program. You’re emotional enough to where your emotions have made your professionalism slip. I’d rather not risk other slips.”

She stares at him.

He sighs. It’s an eight-ounce cup of distilled water, and he drinks it all in one go. He stands and takes two steps over to the counter’s sink. She takes two steps back. After grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser, he turns on the water, fills the cup back up, and hands it to her.

This time she takes it, hand shaking. She turns away from him as she slowly drinks.

He wordlessly takes the glass from her and fills it up again. The paper towel is tossed into the trash. And then he takes the syringe, and easily jabs it into a vein.

“I can take a blood sample,” she objects, fingers dimpling into the paper cup.

He looks up at her. “I do it as often than you do.”

She lowers herself onto the doctor’s stool, head in hand, thumb rubbing at her temple. She turns away, not wanting to watch him do her job.

“What were you fighting about?”

She looks at him, eyes wide, startled. “What?”

“He didn’t just walk out on you. That would be shock, or distress. But you’re angry, and you’re upset. You had an argument, and that’s when he left. What were you fighting about?”

She shakes her head. “It was nothing.”

“Bullshit.” The sharp accusation is accentuated by the clink of the now-filled vials being set down.

Her eyes narrow.

“If it were nothing,” he continues, “you wouldn’t’ve needed a shot of Bacardi.”

She throws the paper cup into the trash. “You should stop talking.” She needs to take control of this situation. She went to the seminars on the program, she read through the guideline booklets. She’s here for the science, and she focuses back on the science. “We need a full work-up. We’ll start with the liver biopsy, and after that, we’ll schedule a marrow extraction.”

“What happened?”

She doesn’t look at him. “This conversation is over.”

A cold silence fills the air as she finalizes the exam prep work.

He watches her every moment. “I’m worried about you, Marta.”

She stills, and makes herself meet his gaze. All the times they’ve met, he’s been quiet and compliant. She wonders about the extent of his worry. “We’re buying a house,” she relents. “And arguing about certain parts of financing.”

He holds her gaze, expression impossible to read. “He’ll come back,” he finally says, softly. “There’s no reason he wouldn’t.”

“You’re talking too much,” she says, the words stiff and too loud. She wonders about the extent of his worry. 

Silence fills the room as she preps the anesthesia. 

“We’ll need to put you under for the procedures.” She steps in, slides the needle under his skin, and slowly presses down on the plunger. “I need you to count back from a hundred.”

“Cien,” he says. “Noventa y nueve, noventa y ocho, noventa y siete.” He tilts his head towards her. “Eras preciosa, noventa y seis, noventa y cino, noventa y…”


End file.
